Part 5 (1/2)

At the extremity of the ridge on which the Bu de la Rue was situate, was a large rock, which the fis.h.i.+ng people of Houmet called the ”Beast's Horn.” This rock, a sort of pyramid, resembled, though less in height, the ”Pinnacle” of Jersey. At high water the sea divided it from the ridge, and the Horn stood alone; at low water it was approached by an isthmus of rocks. The remarkable feature of this ”Beast's Horn” was a sort of natural seat on the side next the sea, hollowed out by the water, and polished by the rains. The seat, however, was a treacherous one. The stranger was insensibly attracted to it by ”the beauty of the prospect,” as the Guernsey folks said. Something detained him there in spite of himself, for there is a charm in a wide view. The seat seemed to offer itself for his convenience; it formed a sort of niche in the peaked _facade_ of the rock. To climb up to it was easy, for the sea, which had fas.h.i.+oned it out of its rocky base, had also cast beneath it, at convenient distances, a kind of natural stairs composed of flat stones. The perilous abyss is full of these snares; beware, therefore, of its proffered aids. The spot was tempting: the stranger mounted and sat down. There he found himself at his ease; for his seat he had the granite rounded and hollowed out by the foam; for supports, two rocky elbows which seemed made expressly for him; against his back, the high vertical wall of rock which he looked up to and admired, without thinking of the impossibility of scaling it. Nothing could be more simple than to fall into reverie in that convenient resting-place. All around spread the wide sea; far off the s.h.i.+ps were seen pa.s.sing to and fro. It was possible to follow a sail with the eye, till it sank in the horizon beyond the Casquets. The stranger was entranced: he looked around, enjoying the beauty of the scene, and the light touch of wind and wave. There is a sort of bat found at Cayenne, which has the power of fanning people to sleep in the shade with a gentle beating of its dusky wings. Like this strange creature the wind wanders about, alternately ravaging or lulling into security. So the stranger would continue contemplating the sea, listening for a movement in the air, and yielding himself up to dreamy indolence. When the eyes are satiated with light and beauty, it is a luxury to close them for awhile. Suddenly the loiterer would arouse; but it was too late. The sea had crept up step by step; the waters surrounded the rock; the stranger had been lured on to his death.

A terrible rock was this in a rising sea.

The tide gathers at first insensibly, then with violence; when it touches the rocks a sudden wrath seems to possess it, and it foams.

Swimming is difficult in the breakers: excellent swimmers have been lost at the Horn of the Bu de la Rue.

In certain places, and at certain periods, the aspect of the sea is dangerous--fatal; as at times is the glance of a woman.

Very old inhabitants of Guernsey used to call this niche, fas.h.i.+oned in the rock by the waves, ”Gild-Holm-'Ur” seat, or Kidormur; a Celtic word, say some authorities, which those who understand Celtic cannot interpret, and which all who understand French can--”_Qui-dort-meurt:_”[1] such is the country folks' translation.

The reader may choose between the translation, _Qui-dort-meurt_, and that given in 1819, I believe in _The Armorican_, by M. Athenas.

According to this learned Celtic scholar, Gild-Holm-'Ur signifies ”The resting-place of birds.”

There is, at Aurigny, another seat of this kind, called the Monk's Chair, so well sculptured by the waves, and with steps of rock so conveniently placed, that it might be said that the sea politely sets a footstool for those who rest there.

In the open sea, at high water, the Gild-Holm-'Ur was no longer visible; the water covered it entirely.

The Gild-Holm-'Ur was a neighbour of the Bu de la Rue. Gilliatt knew it well, and often seated himself there. Was it his meditating place? No.

We have already said he did not meditate, but dream. The sea, however, never entrapped him there.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] He who sleeps must die.

BOOK II

MESS LETHIERRY

I

A TROUBLED LIFE, BUT A QUIET CONSCIENCE

Mess Lethierry, a conspicuous man in St. Sampson, was a redoubtable sailor. He had voyaged a great deal. He had been a cabin-boy, seaman, topmast-man, second mate, mate, pilot, and captain. He was at this period a s.h.i.+p-owner. There was not a man to compare with him for general knowledge of the sea. He was brave in putting off to s.h.i.+ps in distress.

In foul weather he would take his way along the beach, scanning the horizon. ”What have we yonder?” he would say; ”some craft in trouble?”

Whether it were an interloping Weymouth fisherman, a cutter from Aurigny, a bisquine from Courseulle, the yacht of some n.o.bleman, an English craft or a French one--poor or rich, mattered little. He jumped into a boat, called together two or three strong fellows, or did without them, as the case might be, pushed out to sea, rose and sank, and rose again on rolling waves, plunged into the storm, and encountered the danger face to face. Then afar off, amid the rain and lightning, and drenched with water, he was sometimes seen upright in his boat like a lion with a foaming mane. Often he would pa.s.s whole days in danger amidst the waves, the hail, and the wind, making his way to the sides of foundering vessels during the tempest, and rescuing men and merchandise.

At night, after feats like these, he would return home, and pa.s.s his time in knitting stockings.

For fifty years he led this kind of life--from ten years of age to sixty--so long did he feel himself still young. At sixty, he began to discover that he could no longer lift with one hand the great anvil at the forge of Varclin. This anvil weighed three hundredweight. At length rheumatic pains compelled him to be a prisoner; he was forced to give up his old struggle with the sea, to pa.s.s from the heroic into the patriarchal stage, to sink into the condition of a harmless, worthy old fellow.

Happily his rheumatism attacks happened at the period when he had secured a comfortable competency. These two consequences of labour are natural companions. At the moment when men become rich, how often comes paralysis--the sorrowful crowning of a laborious life!

Old and weary men say among themselves, ”Let us rest and enjoy life.”